


Paper Castles (non, je ne regrette rien)

by oh_simone



Series: retired OGs. [1]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Post-Canon, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-14
Updated: 2012-12-14
Packaged: 2017-11-21 04:04:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_simone/pseuds/oh_simone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A UN aide is speaking to him, something about refugee conditions in the Gaza Strip, but Gokudera’s brain has decided after thirty-five years to go offline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper Castles (non, je ne regrette rien)

Tsuna makes good on his word.

 

It takes years and plenty of sweat, tears, and more blood than anyone is happy with, but by the time Gokudera’s reached his twentieth year with the mafia, the Vongola famiglia has gone legit and aboveground, becoming a non-profit organization promoting world peace and poverty awareness. Gokudera, who’s poured himself into the work of fifty men in order to make Tsuna’s every whim reality, finds himself one evening at the company office celebrating their legal, respected new status, holding a flute of champagne. He’s young, ambitious, successful, and totally defunct, now that the guardians have collectively decided to retire in order to disassociate themselves and their mafia roots from the fledgling organization.

A UN aide is speaking to him, something about refugee conditions in the Gaza Strip, but Gokudera’s brain has decided after thirty-five years to go offline. He manages to extract himself from the conversation as politely as possible, and goes directly to Reborn. Tsuna’s not present, but the message will get to him. He informs the gimlet-eyed Arcobaleno that he’ll leave tonight, and when Reborn just gives him an impassive look, takes that as consent. He goes straight to his suite on the top floor and packs his bag, then calls his driver.

Within four hours, he’s on the first flight out of Turin, heading to London.

 

 

The house in Hampstead is one he and Bianchi decided to chip in and buy, after the mafioso who owned it was arrested and had all his possessions seized. He’d been there once to hammer out a ceasefire which ended badly when Gokudera lost his temper and set the arrogant fucker up to be arrested. Though he’d hated the guy, he’d liked his house. Randolph Pitelski was a singular crock of shit, and his thuggy second Giacomo Friday a disturbingly wrathful psychopath, but they certainly had good taste in real estate. The house is in a nice locale, close to Hampstead Heath as well as the tube station. The neighborhood is quiet but active, and no one bothers with an eccentric young millionaire who contributes generously to the local neighborhood beautification fund and occasionally blows things up in his backyard.

For the first few days of unemployment, Gokudera is sunk in second-thoughts and guilt, wondering if his betrayal would bring Tsuna’s wrath down on his head. When he finally works up the nerve to call Tsuna at the end of the first week, he apologizes profusely for suddenly abandoning him, he had no idea what’d gotten into him, no worries, he’ll be on the next flight back, right away! But Tsuna just laughs and protests just as strongly.

“Gokudera,” he says, sounding lighter and happier than he has in a long time, “You need a fresh start and a change of scenery. We all do, heck, I’m taking Kyoko and the kids home to Namimori tonight, and Hibari actually disappeared before you did. Take some time for yourself; I’ll be alright. I’ve got my work cut out for me. But I think you’ll want to do something more exciting than changing diapers at two in the morning.”

It had been on the tip of Gokudera’s tongue to point out that he’d been doing exactly that on the nights Tsuna and Kyoko had him babysitting, but decides to take the sentiment as it is meant. He thanks Tsuna, and promises to stay in touch. Only after he hangs up does he think to ask about what the other guardians were doing, now they are essentially all unemployed. But he doesn’t want to bother Tsuna again, and so puts the notion out of his mind.

He spends his days exploring London thoroughly, playing a burned-out middle-aged man and casual tourist with equal aplomb. The city looks different, once you aren’t constantly looking over your shoulder for treacherous Mafiosi and their local muscle. Gokudera allows himself to see streets and alleys as they are, instead of potential escape routes, buys a car because it’s flashy and pretty, instead of having to consider how well its structure will stand up to bullets, or how easily blood will come out of the upholstery. Even with the car, he usually opts to take the tube or walk; there’s a delicious anonymity in crowding with the hundred or so other passengers in the perfectly cylindrical cars. Gokudera can’t remember a time when he took the tube simply because he didn’t feel like driving.

 

 

On rainy weekdays, he rides into Kensington and takes his time wandering through the museums, the shops, the parks. He visits the Victoria & Albert Museum at least three times over the course of one month; it’s his favorite place in the city. It fills his chest with something quiet and amazed to wander through its vast halls and darkened corridors; the walkway over the Cast Courts is where he lingers the most often, forearms braced against the railing as he contemplates the replica of Trajan’s Column under a clear, 70 foot ceiling.

Sometimes on weekends, he takes the train to Paris and stays in a hotel with a view of the L’Arc de Triomphe. In the mornings, he goes down to the closest bakery and buys a sandwich, a baguette with thick slices of brie and ham in the center, and eats it on his balcony with café au lait and browsing _Le Monde_ , if only because it’s the thing to do. He spends afternoons window shopping while strolling down towards the Paris Opera House. Sometimes, student bands plays on the steps of the famous old building, their enthusiasm feeding the crowd feeding them, and Gokudera lingers until they finish a set, always leaving a five Euro bill in their collection baskets.

Five weeks go by like this. Gokudera feels strangely aimless; if he were any other person, he would give considerable thought to joining a new criminal organization, where he’s comfortable amongst shady dealings and literally backstabbing politics. But even though the Vongola isn’t technically mafia anymore, they’re still famiglia; Gokudera will never turn his back on Tsuna.

So, he finds himself taking the local bookshop girl’s request for piano lessons in exchange for English ones, and they spend afternoons on the Southbank, arguing in a mix of up to four different languages, all horribly accented and barely intelligible and evenings in his drawing room with the big Steinway. Becky is funny and sharp, and can match him pack for pack on cigarettes, not to mention swears fluently in Cantonese due to her obsession with Hong Kong gangster flicks, to his great amusement. She has absolutely no sense of rhythm, but Gokudera thinks with a little more time, he can at least get her to follow a metronome. He surprises himself when he realizes he’s not half as bad a music teacher as he expected; it’s been years since he seriously practiced anything, just casual playing on the piano in the Vongola’s music room, but the finer skills and knowledge have come back quickly with practice in the weeks since coming here.

One student becomes two, when his next-door-neighbor decides to foist her grandson on him, despite his protests, and then four when two of his classmates decide they want in as well. And after awhile, even though it’s almost the last thing he would have chosen to do with his new life, Gokudera just gives in because teaching piano is better than doing nothing; if he has to spend another afternoon in St. James’ Park chucking crackers at the ducks because there is nothing else to do, he will drown himself.

His English improves, and his calls to Tsuna are still frequent, but he stops promising to join him, and soon enough, he’s encouraging Tsuna to bring out his family to visit instead. He gets his updates on the other guardians; Hibari somehow has become leader of Namimori’s Neighborhood Watch program, Mukuro has disappeared with Chrome and the rest of the gang into the wilds of some anonymous Asian metropolis (good riddance, Gokudera thinks uncharitably), Ryohei and Hana are busy opening up a boxing gym (named- what else?- EXTREME MAXIMUM BOXING), and Lambo has enrolled in college. Yamamoto, Tsuna notes, sounding vaguely worried, has disappeared somewhere into the immense bulk of America. Apparently, Tsuna periodically receives postcards of grizzly bears or bikini-clad women, with two lines of writing on the back (actually, more like one since the second line is inevitably transcribed laughter). Gokudera tries not to wonder why he isn’t getting any postcards, and reminds himself that Yamamoto probably isn’t feeling too friendly after his partner leaves him in the lurch when their lives go topsy-turvy.

Two months become six, six rolls forward into a year, and suddenly Gokudera finds himself comfortable here, in this life after life that he’s dug out for himself. He’s become the local piano teacher, much beloved by the neighborhood children, who find his raging invectives against clumsy fingers hilarious instead of cowing (to his chagrin), and much adored by the moms who enjoy gossiping about his handsome demeanor and Italianate flair and intriguing bachelorhood. He has a favorite pub now (shabby but clean and with only one beer on tap), a favorite place to spend the afternoon (Highgate Cemetery, the side with more “character”) even a new favorite holiday (Guy Fawkes Night officially puts the beat down on all those other, less explosive public holidays). As a younger man working with the best in the business, Gokudera had felt like those rats in the wheels, always running and never reaching the end. He finds himself now, at thirty-six, surprisingly amenable to the idea of settling down, just a little bit. And if this new life is rather lonely, since who would stick around long after figuring out what exactly he used to do? Well, Gokudera’s not one to complain when the trade-off is this new, quiet sort of existence filled with more music and contemplation than adrenaline and gun fights. He’s well. More content, anyways, than he’d ever dared to hope.

Bianchi joins him the second year; they endure approximately three months with each other before she leaves to join her new boyfriend in the French Riviera, and Gokudera stops having to do pH tests on everything he eats. In January, Tsuna and Kyoko bring their family to visit, and Gokudera doesn’t realize how much he misses his famiglia until Kyoko is pressing boxes of _okashi_ into his hands and Tsuna is beaming at him, hand clasping his shoulder. Young Paolo has started losing his baby teeth, and Mia is walking and has learned the power of ‘NO’. They spend a rowdy two weeks in his house that is too-big for one person, and Gokudera smiles and laughs more in those fourteen days than he has in almost two years.

While Kyoko and the kids totter back to the house after an exhausting day in Kew Gardens, Tsuna and Gokudera head to the closest pub and hole up in the booths with pints each. They talk a little family business; both Tsuna and Gokudera have quietly kept tabs on the reformed Vongola organization, and follow their progress with vested interest. Mostly though, their talk turns towards the members of the Vongola famiglia, now scattered far and wide.

“Sometimes,” Tsuna confesses with a shadow of that former insecurity, “I think dismantling the famiglia was a terrible idea. The worst is that Reborn never tells me outright what he thinks.”

Gokudera watches his best friend contemplatively and ponders his next words before replying. “Boss, I won’t lie and say I don’t still wish we were in the business. Sometimes I do; Reborn and I, we grew up in it. Half of what I know, I learned in my father’s home. There’s usually nothing else for people like us, who have known no other way of life, beyond the mafia.” He drinks his beer, and continues before Tsuna can morosely apologize. “That said, Tsuna,” he says, because he wants his attention. “You’re different. You showed us that life beyond the famiglia is just as important; maybe in ways even more. If it hadn’t been you at the helm of your crazy idea,” he says with a faint smile, “I don’t know if I’d still be alive today.”

Tsuna shakes his head and smiles ruefully. “Thanks, I think,” he sighs. Gokudera grins and signals for another round.

“Alright, tell me about everyone else. Is Xanxus really taking the Varia on some quest to find God?”

Tsuna barks laughter. “No, but he really has gone to Tibet, and the rest of them following like ducklings. I think he’s mellowed out.”

“Hm,” Gokudera hums, smirking at the thought of Squalo in Tibet. He takes glee in the mental image of the swordsman passing out from lack of air necessary for screaming. “And how’s Seaweed Brain?”

Tsuna makes an amused sound. “Onii-san’s doing well. The gym is pretty popular now with the young kids, and you know him; he’s a good coach. Really cares for the kids, and I think they see and respect that. Hana’s just decided to run for the local council, so they’ll be busy in the next couple months.” Tsuna shrugs. “Haru’s interviewing her for her next article on female politicians, so she should have a good start.”

“That’s great,” Gokudera says, for lack of anything else to say. He’s never had to worry about Ryohei; it’s impossible to keep the man down for long.

“Yamamoto’s reached New York, we think,” Tsuna continues, and Gokudera looks at him, perplexed, because there’s a new tone in his voice. “Just got a card with the Statue of Liberty. I expect he’ll probably continue east to Europe soon. Just giving you a heads up.”

“That freak,” Gokudera mutters, but brings his mug up so he won’t have to meet Tsuna’s eyes.

 

 

So, all in all, Gokudera can’t say he’s terribly shocked when he’s interrupted in the middle of his lesson by someone hanging on the doorbell.

“Again. Keep your wrists up, Joanie. I’ll be right back.” He stomps into the foyer and yanks open the door, halfway working up a rant to blow those religious morons straight back to church, and finds the words dying on his lips as he stares into familiar brown eyes and a faint, crooked grin.

“Hey, Gokudera. Can I crash here awhile?” Yamamoto greets, raising a hand and shuffling on his doorstep. He’s looking a little scruffy and terribly out of place in this posh neighborhood, with a beat up brown leather jacket and washed out jeans, a battered backpack by his feet. His sneakers have turned gray and worn, and there’s a rough shadow along his jaw that speaks of lazy maintenance. Gokudera snaps out of his surprise when Joanie plays a jarringly discordant arpeggio, and he impatiently gestures the other guardian in.

“Upstairs, third door on the right,” he instructs. “Keep yourself occupied for another forty minutes. Joanie! What are you doing, trying to raise the dead?! _Madre di Dio_ , child, can you please think about what you are playing before you deafen us all?” He charges back into the music room, not looking back.

The rest of the lesson crawls by; Joanie has obviously not bothered to practice her etudes and Gokudera grimly drags her through the Clementi measure by measure. They don’t even begin to touch on her performance piece, and by the time her mother comes to pick her up, both teacher and student are hanging onto their patience by threads. Joanie is red-faced and mulish as she stomps directly out the door, and her mother ignores her in favor of nodding sheepishly at Gokudera’s instructions to “sit on her, tie her down, just get her to practice. She’s not totally hopeless, just lazy!”

When he closes the door behind him and turns around, rubbing at his forehead, he sees Yamamoto standing on the stairs, arms crossed and leaning against the banister, a highly amused look on his face. Gokudera glares at him, and then sighs and gestures.

“I’m getting dinner. You’re welcome to stay here.” He can’t say he isn’t pleased when Yamamoto wordlessly follows him out the door.

One of the strengths about their relationship is the lack of pressure to communicate, Gokudera thinks. Yamamoto talks like a train wreck, fast and unstoppable, but never about anything in particular, and certainly not important things. There’s a reason why Gokudera allows Yamamoto so many liberties where others would have had acid kindly tipped down their throats.

Gokudera leads the way to a cheap Thai restaurant, and while Yamamoto waits for the order, ducks around to the liquor store and buys a six pack of Guinness.

They trudge their way home laden down with plastic bags and steaming hot cartons of Pad Thai, Yamamoto keeping up a steady flow of talk. He tells Gokudera about attending major league games and being in Florida when the hurricanes hit. There’s one story about camping out in Montana and waking up to a stampede of bison passing within yards of him and his car, but Gokudera thinks he’s exaggerating about that. Inside the house, they take their food up into the bedroom, sitting cross legged on Gokudera’s king-sized bed, the one indulgence he’s always insisted on, and watching BBC Three on his flat screen. They used to do this, back when they were still the mafia world’s top dogs, eat greasy takeout and beer on the bed with loose ties and rolled sleeves, documents spread around them on the bedspread and red pens behind their ears. And even earlier, when it was just algebra they were discussing, over Yamamoto’s dad’s _chiraishi_. It’s strangely comforting and familiar, even though the fact that his partner has found him after two years of absolutely no word is a little jarring. Gokudera thinks if they were a more normal group of people, he probably should be feeling pretty pissed, or happy, or something. As is, he’s mostly vaguely uneasy. Seeing Yamamoto again reminds him sharply of the Beretta and the two spare clips he keeps in his bedside drawer.

Around the end of some comedy program, Yamamoto tosses his empty carton with unerring accuracy into the wastebasket and sighs, leaning back against the headboard contentedly. Gokudera watches him silently, his own take out box neatly on the bedside table. He wonders if Yamamoto minds him smoking; he’s been itching for one all afternoon. A year ago, he’d have picked one up without a second thought, but when a couple of his students turned out to have asthma, he decided to cut down on smoking inside the house, if only to wash his hands of all blame if a kid decided to seize out on his floor.

Yamamoto knocks his foot against Gokudera’s knee, and smiles up at him, lazy and warm. “I’ve missed this,” he admits, his hands behind his head, and he looks so comfortable Gokudera just has to reach over and rap his head sharply.

“I’ve been here two years,” he growled. “What’s your excuse?”

Laughing, Yamamoto shrugs, the movement hitching his shirt up. “Felt like traveling.”

Silently, Gokudera shifts so he’s side along his old partner, sitting against the headboard with his legs stretched out and crossed. Outside, it’s started raining and the windows run with rivulets of water.

“You planning to keep going?” he asks lightly, lacing his hands together and resting them over his full stomach.

Yamamoto’s eyes flicker to him briefly before returning to the television screen. “Thought I’d stick around awhile,” he replies, just as blandly. “I’ve always liked this city.”

 

 

It’s a completely new life that Gokudera’s built for himself in London, but Yamamoto’s been a part of his old one for far too long, and it’s terrifyingly easy to fit him in here. In the mornings, Yamamoto goes for runs on the Heath, and comes back to practice katas in the backyard. By the time he’s done, Gokudera will have woken up and started up the coffee, and they’ll have breakfast together. Sometimes, they go out together in the mornings, but more often than not, Yamamoto disappears on his own for hours and returning only in time for dinner, usually laden down with odd things. Once, he comes home with four ceramic figurines, in shapes of sweetly pastoral figures. Another time, he brings Ethiopian flatbread, thick and yeasty. It takes him two trips once when he decides to pick up an old record player and accompanying thick stacks of vinyls, Edith Piaf to The Shins. He drags home a broken rocking chair one afternoon, and though Gokudera bitches at him for bringing such crap back, they spend the next couple days together, replacing the bowed, cracked wood and giving the chair a thorough cleaning and polish. Every so often, he comes back with handfuls of travel brochures, and tacks them up on the corkboard he bought for the living room. It’s not unusual to find him curled on the rocking chair underneath a wall of colorful glossy pamphlets, reading aloud Berlin’s must-see attractions.

Over dinners, Gokudera hears improbable tales about what it’s like to get lost in the Canadian Rockies without a flashlight or water as the sun sets, or how to go easy on would-be muggers in the unappealing parts of Chicago. It’s a lot of funny little travel stories that are impersonal as fuck, but from the occasional hints dropped, Gokudera thinks Yamamoto may have fallen in love somewhere along the way, and maybe killed someone too. He knows better than to ask by now.

His students and their parents love Yamamoto, though, Gokudera thinks with resignation, he doesn’t know why he expected anything else. Everyone always does; it’s what made their particular good cop/bad cop routine so damn legendary. Now, instead of having to contend with just his students, he gets to deal with chatty parents gossiping to Yamamoto in the kitchen where his partner has inevitably a kettle of tea on the stove and a plate of homemade green tea butter cookies out. It’s rankling; he’ll never be anything but prickly and private, but since Yamamoto never lets the conversation last beyond a lesson, and cleans up afterwards immediately, Gokudera supposes he can live with it.

He wants badly to ask when Yamamoto will leave again, but realizes he’s terrified of getting an answer. Gokudera knows most of his London acquaintances have suspicions about his and Yamamoto’s relationship, but the truth is, nothing between them has ever been anything like the rumors. Perhaps, a long time ago, it had been possible; Gokudera’s spent most of his life willfully blind to anything but the family cause, but he’s not oblivious. If the possibility had been there, though, he also knows it’s gone now. They’ve moved far past the point. It would be easier, Gokudera thinks, to ask Yamamoto to stay if it had been like that. Instead, he finds himself with low grade apprehension running through his mind, preparing for the day he wakes to find Yamamoto’s key on the kitchen counter and the guest room cleaned out.

Four months into Yamamoto’s stay, he puts down his chopsticks and stares at Gokudera, calmly.

“I’m going to Germany next week,” he tells him, smiling. “I think I’m going to travel the Romantische Strasse.”

Gokudera swallows his curry and returns his gaze as steadily as he can manage. “Fine,” he replies, feeling the taste in his mouth turn bitter.

 

 

Even with the early warning, Yamamoto’s absence, as sudden as his appearance, is like having the air sucked from his lungs. Moving to London was like ripping off a bandage; jarring and a little painful, but so novel that he wasn’t constantly thinking about the past, but now that Yamamoto’s come back and made a place for himself here, his absence hurts sharper than it did the first time. Gokudera doesn’t like it; he’s too old for belated revelations and sullen pining and agonizing over ‘what if’s.

His students learn quickly not to ask about Yamamoto, and he pretends not to see the sympathetic, pitying looks their mothers give him. It’s easier to just shrug whenever anyone asks than explain that apparently, Yamamoto got bored and left. And it’s really only now he begins to see how absolutely miserable English weather is, with the constant rain and overcast sky, where even blue skies are dotted with thick high clouds promising rain. Becky, the English conversationalist tells him she’s surprised he’s lasted this long without escaping somewhere less depressing, and suggests they go to Cannes together for a weekend. It’s tempting, especially since he knows the offer is just that—a well-meaning gesture to cheer him up. He takes a few days to think about it before finally agreeing. They set a date over afternoon tea at the Wallace Collection, and he goes home, wondering a little if thirty-seven is too old to be jaunting around in speedos.

The rest of the week flies by quickly; his weekend he clears out, and thus spends most of his spare evenings making up lessons in advance. He buys a new pair of sunglasses that seems like a silly purchase when it’s raining a Biblical flood outside. On Thursday, he finishes packing and drops his luggage in the hallway; they’re leaving as soon as Becky swings by after work. It’s four in the afternoon when he hears the bell ring, and is a little surprised because she’s earlier than he’d expected. It’s on the tip of his tongue to tell her so, when his eyes register the not-Becky figure on his doorstep. For a moment, he’s utterly speechless, blinking behind his glasses, but that half second is all it takes for Giacomo Friday to shoot him.

White hot pain explodes through him, and his knees go weak with shock. Gokudera staggers and drops, clutching his chest and wildly cursing himself for ever getting careless. The wood floor is going to be a bitch to clean up, he thinks, as a red pool seems to grow and grow in his line of sight. He barely feels it as Friday spits on him, the wetness smacking against his cheek. Apparently, Gokudera notes hysterically, Friday’s learned self-restraint. He can hear the footsteps receding quickly, but it’s hard to hold onto consciousness now, and he struggles only briefly before sliding into darkness.

He briefly comes to as the stretcher’s being carted into the ambulance. The blurry white mess hovering to his side he just recognizes as Becky, and he tries to say something but coughs and the pain that spasms to life has him groaning weakly instead. One of the paramedics lean over to say something to him, but his sound system has fuzzed out again, and he falls back into unconsciousness.

The next time he wakes, he’s staring up at a pale ceiling, and hooked up to all these tubes and machines. Grimly, he shoves off his oxygen mask and tries to sit up, gritting at the dull ache that flares hot in his chest. There are a couple flowers and balloons on the table, and a book half read with a receipt marking the middle of its pages.

The door slides open and Gokudera swivels his head to see who it is. Shamal is frowning at the clipboard in his hand, but notices Gokudera when he glances up briefly.

“Good, you’re up,” he says succinctly, pulling a face. “You don’t understand how much it sucks for my only patient to be you know. Not a girl.”

“Whatever, old man,” Gokudera says, and coughs as the words stick and break in his dry throat. Despite Shamal’s vocal distaste, he’s immediately at his side handing him water and easing him back down.

“Want to take it easy there, short stuff?” Shamal asks dryly. Gokudera gives him the finger, which isn’t the most mature move, but the doctor has always been able to make him feel all of seven and awkward all over again. He continues talking, anticipating Gokudera’s questions. “You’ve been out for two days. The bullet penetrated the right side of our chest, exited just shy of your right scapula. Dumb shit probably didn’t realize your heart is on the other left.” Shamal sounds light but his movements are precise as he goes through checking Gokudera’s vitals. “You went under in surgery once, made them work for their money. But now you’re stable and conscious.” He smiles, wide and careless. “I’d say that’s pretty good.”

“Fantastic,” Gokudera says, feeling sore and achey and tired. “Is that bastard dead yet?”

Shamal doesn’t say anything, and Gokudera rolls his head over to see the doctor giving him a scrutinizing look. And then Gokudera grits his teeth in frustration because he suddenly remembers he isn’t Mafia anymore; he’s a civilian.

“The police have him in custody,” Shamal offers quietly. “As you may have gathered, he’s violated the terms of his parole rather drastically.”

“That scum sucking bastard,” Gokudera utters feelingly.

“I know,” Shamal says sympathetically. He finishes his round of check up that his patient tolerates numbly, and tucks his pen away. “Well, you’re alive, and probably going to be fine. I think my job here is done,” he says brightly, as a different glint comes into his eyes. “It’s time to introduce myself to the lovely, dedicated nursing staff here; it’s only proper.”

“Get out, you lech. You’re like, sixty, can you still even get it up?” Gokudera growls and then wishes for immediate death when Shamal gleefully answers his question with great relish.

Thankfully, the door opens again, and Bianchi pokes her head in, enormous sunglasses obscuring half her face.

 

 

It’s a strange and not altogether pleasant experience when the cops come to talk to him, and for once, he gets to play the victim. There’s still the faint urge to run for it when Constables Lee and Hooker drop by; he can tell Bianchi feels it too when her grip on his arm spasms briefly. The two policemen are polite and professional and Gokudera tells them as succinctly as he can the events of that afternoon. He knows they’re a little less than satisfied with his answers, but he adopts his stoniest blank look and continues lying through his teeth, no, officers, I don’t know him. Never seen him in my life before, have no idea why he’d do such a thing. Bianchi is a silent, menacing presence besides him, and he feels oddly comforted to know that she’s probably already initiated some sort of clean-up operation with the old famiglia lawyers to well and truly hide Gokudera’s connections to Giacomo Friday and Randolph Pitelski.

“You’re getting too old for these sorts of adventures,” Bianchi tells him once they’re alone again and Gokudera scoffs and tugs his arm out of her grip.

“Not like I asked him to come shoot a little excitement in my life,” he points out. “Besides, we always knew the risks in and out of the famiglia. I expected something sooner, just not from small fry that should still be in jail.”

Bianchi doesn’t reply, but retakes his hand stubbornly, and squeezes it gently. He doesn’t look at her full on, not knowing how well the pain would mix with even the faintest nausea, but his thumb strokes her knuckles briefly.

 

 

His sister sees him home a couple days later, where a huge care package from Tsuna’s waiting, as well as a get-well card that promises an in-person visit, once the Sawada household recovers from a sudden and virulent epidemic of chicken pox. The piano top is littered with homemade cards from his students, and the kitchen counter is stacked with baked goods and chocolate boxes from his neighbors and well-wishers. Bianchi sees him settled in his room with stacks of Godiva truffles besides him before kissing his cheek and leaving for the next flight to Rome. He settles in, rubbing at the tingly spot her lips had pressed against his skin and takes his pills dry, watching BBC News until he nods off, unconscious after barely half an hour. In his dreams, he stands at the center of a storm, calm and strong and cool while the world rips itself to shreds around him. There’s no horror in him as he watches streets flood and wind tear down trees and houses, only a wistful ache that mingles with his gunshot wound and radiates dull pain around his heart. In his dream, he walks, untouched by the chaos, and never finding anyone who sees him wrapped within the storm.

It’s depressingly gray when he wakes up, head and body aching. The television is still murmuring at him and he thumbs it off before slowly easing himself into an upright position. The house feels hollow and draftier today; Gokudera allows himself a moment of weakness and admits grudgingly that maybe he should have let Bianchi stay longer instead of insisting otherwise.

There’s no need to go to Marks & Spencers or whatever—there’s enough food stocked in the kitchen by well-meaning neighbors to feed the Grand Army. Gokudera winces his way to the refrigerator and picks out a meat and onion pasty and a bottle of Coke before gently shuffling to the living room and lowering himself down onto the couch. When he can breathe easily again, no small hitches of pain in his throat, he looks up at the pinned brochures, where pictures of Amsterdam and Prague and Salzburg invite him to go explore their cities. With a sudden heaviness and bittersweetness, Gokudera realizes he’s become old. He’s aged since leaving the mafia, a strange reversal of popular opinion. It’s like how he used to come down with the worst bouts of flu after finals; his body has suddenly decided to crumple under the weight of years of high stress and abuse when he finally relaxes. He wonders if this is what mid-life crisis feels like, a sudden loss of faith in one self. Sighing, he turns his head against the cushion and lets his eyes slip closed; all of his common sense is warning him that if he dozes off in this position, he’s going to regret it heartily when he wakes. Gokudera sleeps.

When he wakes again, it’s to mild surprise; he’s warm, covered by a spare blanket that was last seen in the guestroom closet, and he’s been rearranged into a horizontal position on his back. Instantly, he’s wary, and his hands go to the small flashbomb that he’d stuck in his pocket when getting dressed. He struggles upright, ignoring the clench of pain and tenses as footsteps clatter down the hall.

Yamamoto suddenly crowds the doorway, flannel sleeves rolled up and hands shiny and wet. Gokudera stares.

“…Are you doing my dishes?” he asks blankly, a question Yamamoto ignores as he crosses the room and gently manhandles him back against the cushions. It irritates Gokudera and he snaps distempered at him. “What are you doing here?”

The smile on Yamamoto’s face is quick and reflexive; Gokudera thinks that he looks old now too, the wrinkles starting to gain shadow, gray brushing his temples. “I saw what I wanted to,” he replies calmly and taking a seat in the rocking chair that puts him to Gokudera’s right side. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay here while in town. It’ll save me the trouble of finding someplace short term.” He knows by now not to mention the injury, nor, Gokudera thinks sourly, of Bianchi’s hand in contacting him.

“Do whatever you want,” Gokudera grunts and struggles to sit upright again, batting Yamamoto’s hands away irritably when he tries to help. “I’m just going back upstairs; don’t need to be dragged all over my own damn house.”

“Sure,” Yamamoto chuckles. “Whatever you say.” But he braces a hand under Gokudera’s arm anyways, and because Gokudera has learned over time to pick his battles, he lets him.

 

 

Yamamoto used to do this too, back when their minds and bodies still ran on adrenaline and intrigue. He keeps the stereo system loaded with CDs and the remote within easy reach. The little orange cylinders of painkillers he lines up carefully after he shakes out the next dose and drops the pills silently into Gokudera’s palm. There’s nothing to betray it in his face, but Gokudera can tell despite the light chatter and easy smiles, Yamamoto’s anything but happy. Gokudera can guess why, but he’s tired and feeling heartsick, so when Yamamoto glances at him in the middle of turning down the shades, he turns his head and closes his eyes.

When Gokudera wakes up again, there’s a stack of magazines and cheap thriller paperbacks on the bedside table. It’s dark through the shades, and faintly, he can hear sounds in the kitchen: sizzling, the clank of pans against the stove top grates, Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers on the record player and Yamamoto’s shitty off-pitch voice singing along to ‘Paper Castles’. He rubs his head; pills always make him feel slightly hungover and nauseous and he sips the glass of water next to the magazines slowly before pushing off his bed and venturing downstairs, where the thick inviting smell of food grows stronger.

The music switches to ‘Why do fools fall in love?’, and Gokudera pauses in the doorway of the kitchen, watching as Yamamoto warbles loudly and badly, stir-frying yakisoba in the biggest pan in Gokudera’s kitchen. The kitchen light is butter mellow and inviting, and the warmth in the room seeps through Gokudera’s clothes as he leans against the wall, trying half-heartedly to hold back a smile. Yamamoto’s back is broad and sturdy as he plates the yakisoba and then ladles miso soup into two bowls. He’s in the middle of a wincingly terrible rendition of ‘Little Bitty Pretty One’ when he turns and catches sight of his charge watching him. It probably amuses him more than it should when Yamamoto’s voice dies in the middle of a strangled ‘whoa-oh’.

Gokudera smirks. “Hello, Yamamoto.”

Yamamoto coughs and grins sheepishly, his face suddenly boyish again. “Haha, caught me,” he says with a crooked smile. “I was just making dinner. Are you up to some food?”

“I’m injured,” Gokudera points out dryly, “Not dead.” He sees Yamamoto’s barely-there flinch, but chooses to ignore it as he takes a seat at the kitchen table. Wordlessly, Yamamoto hands him the yakisoba and places the soup next to his plate. There’s already a pair of chopsticks on his setting. Yamamoto takes a seat besides him, looking at him carefully, but Gokudera ignores him as he eats small, careful bites. Dinner is a strangely quiet affair that makes Gokudera just slightly nervous; he’s waiting for Yamamoto to say something, about Germany, about his injury, anything.

“You could be.” It’s said so quietly that Gokudera thinks he imagined it, until he looks up from fishing tofu out of his soup and Yamamoto is staring at him, and the look on his face is devoid of humor. Something icy hot wells up inside, and the food sticks to his throat. Gokudera swallows and scowls, already on edge from the tension.

“Yeah, well. Comes with the life we chose. And I had this conversation with my sister already,” he snaps. “You can wipe that dumb look off your face; it’s nothing that hasn’t happened before.”

“But it wasn’t supposed to happen anymore,” Yamamoto objects, and oh, Dio, now he looks upset. “What’s the point of this,” he gestures around him with a sharp, angry jerk of his hand, “if you’ll still end up bleeding out on the ground?”

Gokudera gapes, briefly unable to answer. “You,” he utters. “The point?” Gokudera cocks his head and gives Yamamoto a look that drips with sardonic disbelief. “Yamamoto, you’ve been with the mafia for over twenty years. I’ve lived it my entire life; you and I have both seen what happens to men like us. We either die young going down in filthy back alleys with bullets lodged in our spines, or we die old with bullets in our skulls. Those were our only choices, and I have spent an entire lifetime coming to terms with that end.” He can feel his lips twist down. “What Tsuna did for us, Yamamoto, don’t you get it? He dissolved the famiglia, but in doing that, we have an out.” He wills Yamamoto to understand, to see what they’ve been given. “We’re not doomed to die by blood and tears. It’s not a perfect escape, but it’s a damn sight better than what it was before. You should know this better than any of us now,” Gokudera says coldly, spine straightening stiffly.

“And you think that’s enough?” Yamamoto shoots back, eyes glittering with banked anger. “This flimsy play at ordinary living while criminal scum who don’t give a damn about this so-called second-chance still come after you?”

“Why,” Gokudera says, with a world of bewildered frustration behind his words, “Why the hell are you telling me this? Why not Tsuna, or Reborn?”

“Because,” Yamamoto explodes, “It’s you I’m most worried about!” Gokudera opens his mouth to reply but he cuts him off heatedly. “You have never once cared for yourself since we’ve met—it’s always the Tenth, the famiglia, the _cause_ with you. Now none of that exists anymore; can’t you see where I’m going?”

“God,” Gokudera splutters, livid and lost for words. The chopsticks clatter to the table as he stands up suddenly, his chair shoved back with a screech. “Just, shut up. Shut the fuck up. You have no idea what you’re saying, you goddamn bastard. Why the fuck do you get to care now? You never thought of this two years ago? It didn’t matter then, so what makes you think you can do this now? You got nothing,” Gokudera swears, low and vicious. “You don’t have one shit-pounding goddamn leg to stand on.”

He storms out of the kitchen, hell, he gets the fuck out of his house, relishing the slam of the door that must shake the whole building. Outside, it’s dark and cold, and Gokudera has only a thin cotton shirt on, but anger keeps him warm as he strides down the street, fumbling his crumpled pack of cigarettes with hands that shake. He drops the whole box in a puddle, and furiously kicks Mrs. Collinsworth’s hedgerow.

“Fuck,” he says hoarsely, then louder and fiercely, “Fuck!”

 

 

“C’mon, mate, you gotta work with me here,” someone mutters to him, but Gokudera can’t seem to remember how his feet work.

“‘s fine,” he slurs, and lists towards the curb. His companion swears and suddenly Gokudera finds himself being hauled in a totally different direction and posting up against something tall and warm. He rolls his head back and squints as a face swims into view.

“Roland,” he enunciates, and is rewarded with a little smile. He frowns and struggles to remember the little girl associated with the figure. “Go home. I can walk.”

“You could’a said something back when we left,” Roland chuckles. “We’re already here.”

Gokudera blinks and turns his head to scrutinize his house door. “…I’m not going in there,” he says darkly. “I need another drink.”

“Oh, I don’t think so, Mr. Gokudera,” Roland says firmly. “You’ve cleaned out George about a week’s worth of whiskey; don’t know if there’s enough in the neighborhood for another glass.”

“Then bring me vodka,” he mumbles, swaying as Roland guides him up the stairs and rings the bell. Gokudera thinks it’s a good thing he got liquored up before leaving the bar; it’s damn cold, but he can’t bring himself to care. The door opens, and the light from inside makes him look away with a frown. Roland is talking to someone in the doorway, but Gokudera is realizing the dandelions in his front yard have mutated to a size more common in giraffes than weeds. “Weedkiller,” he promises menacingly, and then he’s moving again as the other person gently wraps an arm around his waist. Roland pats his shoulder and squeezes gently before starting down the road, and suddenly Gokudera is inside his house, stumbling on the perfectly bare wooden floor.

“Man, Gokudera,” someone sighs. “How much did you have?”

Gokudera squints at him, realizes it’s Yamamoto and scowls. “Enough to put down a fucking rhino. I decided alcohol poisoning wouldn’t be a shitty way to go,” he drawls viciously, but it comes out slurred and less venomous than he’d intended. He tries to shove away anyways, unsuccessfully.

“Yes, fine, I’m a dumb baseball freak. I’m shit-for-brains,” Yamamoto soothes, manhandling him up the stairs.

“You really are,” Gokudera tells him sincerely. “Shit, even Lambo’s smarter than you, an’ he shoots himself all the fucking time with a bazooka. Why am I plagued by idiots?”

“You’re so good to us,” Yamamoto chuckles; Gokudera notes muzzily that somehow, he’s seated on his bed and Yamamoto’s unbuttoning his shirt.

“None of that,” he mutters, batting at Yamamoto’s hands. “Coulda done that before. But not anymore. I’m pissed off and you need to swim in the Thames. Concrete shoes.”

Yamamoto’s hands have frozen against his skin, but Gokudera doesn’t realize. He lies down, exaggeratedly careful because he remembers there’s a hole in his chest, and his eyelids drag closed of their own accord. If the room’s spinning, it’s at least dark and warm.

“Gokudera, you should at least take off your shoes,” he hears from very, very far away, and then the feeling of someone gently pulling his shoes off. He’s drifting already, half in delirious, alcohol soaked dreams when he feels the warm, soft touch of Yamamoto’s hand against his face; he turns into that wide, callused palm and presses dry lips to its center before turning away.

“You’re a fucking moron,” he mumbles, and passes out.

 

 

When Gokudera stumbles downstairs really despising the world and the sun, there’s a bag of Mcdonald’s hashbrowns and orange juice on the kitchen table, Gokudera’s favorite hangover cure. He resolves to hate Yamamoto a little less as he forces the first bite of greasy fried potatoes, and perversely feels a little better.

 

 

Neither of them is looking forward to the conversation they need to have. Gokudera makes it easier and escapes to Notting Hill and Portobello Market, browsing the vintage and antique shops that crowd the roadside. He buys a ring, some new embroidered placemats, and a hat for Haru because it reminds him of her. He picks up a used copy of Thucydides and is about to step into a pub for a pint when a hand grips his forearm. Even before he turns, he figures Yamamoto has found him.

“You shouldn’t be outside,” Yamamoto informs him lightly, but the glint in his eyes is like steel. Gokudera shakes off his hand and shoves his bags into his arms.

“It’s a good thing I’m going in for lunch then, isn’t it,” he says flatly and leads the way to a booth.  
Under Yamamoto’s disapproval, Gokudera sighs and orders mineral water instead of the Strongbow he really wants, and bangers and mash.

“Gokudera,” Yamamoto starts after they’ve placed their orders, “I need to apologize.”

Gokudera levels a fork at him. “Yes, you do.” His companion grins half-heartedly, but there’s an undercurrent of ‘you’re not making this easier’ in its edges.

“You’ve never asked about America. I’m grateful you didn’t. But you could have. The right is yours, more than anyone else’s,” He looks every bit a retired, aging hitman as he speaks, head bowed and shoulders sloped down, his eyes on the knobs and scar tissue of his knuckles. “You have to know that I never wanted to hurt you.”

“You didn’t,” Gokudera tells him bluntly. “I don’t expect anything from you.”

“But you should,” Yamamoto says, fiercely, his eyes sharp and amber. “I want- I want you to want things for yourself. You should expect things of me; that’s what friends do. That’s what- that’s what you do, when you care about someone.”

Gokudera stares back, unable to look away even though he can feel his skin crawl uncomfortably under the attention. “I’m lost,” he replies, deliberately thick. “What exactly are you apologizing for?”

The flinty look that comes into Yamamoto’s eyes is one he hasn’t seen in over two years and hasn’t missed. “Don’t be like that, Gokudera,” he says quietly, and there’s a hint of pleading in his tone. “Don’t make this harder than it has to.

They are interrupted by the arrival of their food; it’s juvenile, but Gokudera resorts to keeping his mouth full so he won’t have to respond.

 

 

Yamamoto follows obediently as Gokudera stubbornly continues to linger over the stalls and wares, even though his face has paled and it’s obvious the pain is starting to toe the line of unbearable. By the time Gokudera wavers out to the open street, Yamamoto is already flagging down a black cab, a grim line to his jaw. Gokudera doesn’t bother to object, just slumps in the furthest corner of the backseat and carefully not looking at his companion.

He lets Yamamoto pay the fare, and goes into the house, not bothering to snap on the lights as he takes a seat heavily at his piano. He desperately wants to smoke, but there’s no ashtray in reach, and now that he’s down, he really doesn’t want to get up again. Shifting idly, he splays his fingers over the keys, listening to the sudden resonance of notes reverberate through the cold, gray space. When Yamamoto joins him, Gokudera’s listlessly picking one-handedly through an old jazz standard, a bare and melancholy melody in the falling afternoon.

“Gokudera,” Yamamoto starts, but is interrupted as Gokudera abruptly presses a loud, jarring chord and meets his gaze. He stares at Yamamoto for a long time, trying to see beyond the decades of familiarity to the barest man before him. He tries to see the soft, tousled hair for the first time, pretends to wonder how the faint line just off center on his chin got there, admires his height and range like he’s never noticed it before. Quietly, he watches the breath lift his broad chest, savors the faint light from the kitchen that limns the lines of Yamamoto’s face and shoulders.

It’s been twenty-three years since they’ve crashed and tangled into acquaintance, bickering and jibing and shoving each other along into an unlikely partnership, an even stranger friendship. There's been time enough to cast each other away, and yet, they somehow keep coming back to this point. Something inside Gokudera finally loosens, and he reaches out a hand. Yamamoto hesitates only briefly before crossing the room and grasping it, helping him stand up. And if Gokudera refuses to let him go, well, who is there to care but the two of them?

“Tell me about America,” Gokudera says quietly, his eyes holding a dare.

The tense look on Yamamoto’s face twists, surprised and complicated, but when it clears, the slow smile is like the rising sun of an Italian summer, hot and bright and dazzling warmth.

“No,” he replies, a world of unrestrained tenderness in his voice. “Not yet, but soon.”

Gokudera glares, but only half-heartedly, and doesn’t pull away when Yamamoto cups a wide, broad hand over the back of his neck and gently guides him close. And though he still isn’t one hundred percent sure he’s making the right decision, he presses his face to Yamamoto’s shoulder and closes his eyes.

 

 

Gokudera only wakes when the sunlight becomes too bright to bear, and he’s disturbed to hear birds chirping and warbling like a Disney cliché. This strangely beatific morning is out of step with the London weather of late; if Gokudera were a more paranoid man, he’d find it suspicious. The space besides him is empty, but the extra pillow is creased and dimpled; last night was not a dream, and he really did fall asleep warm against Yamamoto’s side. Gokudera thinks he’s about three decades too old to be blushing, but there’s really nothing else he can call the heat that stains his cheeks. Though it isn’t like anything actually happened, he reminds himself sourly. He briefly remembers tracing the contours of Yamamoto’s face, touching the curve of his smile like he’d wanted for so long, feeling Yamamoto’s hands slide through his hair and smooth over his brow. It left a feeling fragile and almost unbearably heart-stopping; just the memory of it makes Gokudera swallow and touch his chest gently, where bandages tape a hole closed.

The clatter and thumps of someone coming up the stairs alerts him; Gokudera looks up just as Yamamoto pushes the bedroom door open, carrying a tray loaded with breakfast.

After a moment of silence, Yamamoto smiles. “Good morning,” he says as he sets the tray down on Gokudera’s lap.

“I suppose it is,” Gokudera responds, before his mind can really register the words.

Yamamoto blinks with surprise, and suddenly the smile splits in a wide, silly grin that makes him look ten years younger.

“It’s very good,” he assures, and he looks so happy that Gokudera just has to lean in and kiss him. This feels like a new beginning finally taking flight.

_Non, je ne regrette rien_  
Car ma vie car mes joies  
Aujourd'hui, ça commence avec toi 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Orig. written 24, March 2010.  
> Thanks to [](http://myndii.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://myndii.livejournal.com/)**myndii** for cheerleading ♥  
>  It started with an idea of Yamamoto bringing Gokudera breakfast in bed, and then decided to fuck off and take the scenic route. The title is a nod to my writing soundtrack for this. I had Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers and Edith Piaf playing nonstop throughout the whole writing process, and nothing else.
> 
> Obvs, I am not a medical expert. Gokudera's injury is probably fatal in all other cases, but hey, this is the world of KHR, where babies are hitmen and Schrodinger's Cat turns out to be alive after all (sorry, sorry. That was a really bad reference to Uri, when I have no business discussing physics here at all.)
> 
> the last bit of lyrics translates to: No, nothing at all, I have no regrets / Because from today, my life, my happiness, everything / Starts with you
> 
>  
> 
> [Paper Castles](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oU7XFXVzzmY)  
> [Non, je ne regrette rien](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q3Kvu6Kgp88)  
> 


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